


Chainless

by MxMoro



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (the bloodplay is pretty mild), Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Drunk Sex, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Flashbacks, Gay Disasters, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Loneliness, Most of the characters in OW n Talon will play a part as this continues, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smoking, Spiderbyte, Stays pretty close to canon except widows backstory, Widowtracer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-23 14:17:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13789488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MxMoro/pseuds/MxMoro
Summary: Amélie wants revenge.Sombra feels lonely.Tracer begins to doubt.Angela feels guilty.





	1. "Vacation"

A dance. This cannot be called anything else than a dance, she thinks quietly, just avoiding the pistols rapidly firing at where her head was a millisecond earlier.  
Her dancing partners style is fast and energetic; a fly, zipping from place to place.  
"But slow and steady wins the race", she mumbles to herself, sending the butt of her rifle straight into the temple of the girl who had just appeared behind her. The sound of metal against flesh and bone is both sickening and grossly satisfying.  
The sound brings both of them back to reality, away from the almost meditative state of this rhytmic violence.  
Tracer falls to the floor, needing just a second to recover from the blow, and Amélie takes this window of oppurtunity to quickly recon her surroundings. "Merde." The fly had distracted her. Her target was gone, rescued while they were dancing.  
"Better luck next time luv!" the girl behind her says, standing up and giving a short, mocking salute. And with that, in a flash of blue light, she's gone, leaving Amélie to ruminate alone on her failure.  
Failure seldom bothered her, she had no emotional investment in the goals of Talon, no opinion regarding those she had been sent to kill. But this was not their mission, it was hers. This target had been her reason for joining Talon in the first place, despite their incompetence and unachievable goals.  
  
Wine, she decides. Wine would solve this. Abuse and implants can change a person deeply, but one cannot take the appreciation of fine wine out of a french woman.  
Luckily, her target had the decency to be swiss, meaning a bottle of good french wine was not impossible to find, especially this close to the border. Even the quaint cafe she settles on has a surprisingly good selection. She decides on a wine from the nearby Savoie-region, made with the mondeuse grape. Taking a first sip, she allows herself to take in every note; cherry, a hint of cinnamon, a note of pink peppercorn, and a bitter, almost metallic undertone. Almost like the taste of ... “Please, no.”, she whispers quietly to herself as a familiar wave of memories comes washing back. Gerards fist against her cheek. A taste of blood. A splash of water to wash it off. But something is different in this memory. The fear is there, as it always is, but it is mixed with something else, something quieter. Determination, anger, hatred, or contempt. Whatever it is, Amélie, both in the now and in the past, holds on to this feeling as if her life depends on it. The wave of memories ends with an image of a thick red spreading over white silken bedsheets. And with that, Amélie is back in Switzerland, in a small cafe just by the border. She quickly gulps down the rest of her glass and orders another, white this time. A fruity, cloyingly sweet thing, but it washes away the taste of metal.  
“Hola, amiga! White? I'd always guessed you were a red wine kinda gal but I guess even I'm wrong occasionally.”  
“I am, but their selection did not agree with my palate. This goes down easier. Why are you here, Sombra?” Amélie replies, her tone a mix of annoyance and fondness, at this point used to the fact that this purple-haired hacker will just appear sometimes, no matter if one is in Texas, Spain or the Swiss border. “Vacation! Talon doesn't seem to need me at the moment, and I did always want to try snowboarding.”, Sombra answers, cheerful as ever.  
“And I am to assume that your choice of vacation spot being this specific town is just a happy coincidence, oui?”  
“I just want to hang out with my favourite purple sociopath, is that so wrong? Why are you here, for that matter?” Sombra says gleefully, waving over the waiter and quickly rattling of a long list off drinks and foods that Amélie doubts this cafe can accommodate.  
“Vacation.”  
“A vacation that somehow requires a giant rifle and an intimate knowledge of a certain Overwatch-affiliated doctors travel schedule, spending habits and security detail, that is.”  
“And your vacation somehow requires an intimate knowledge of my travel schedule, packing habits, search history and taste in wine.”  
Sombra puts her hands up in mock surrender “You got me there, amiga. I got interested in why you would go here to seemingly try and kill the good doctor, and _strangely_ couldn't find the information by myself, so I decided to just ask! And if the story is good enough, maybe I offer my help to a friend.”  
“That's personal. And I dont need your help.”  
The waiter arrives and starts to place various drinks on Sombras side off the table, offering Amélie a second of respite from this hellish conversation as her _friend_ is forced to concentrate on something that is not questioning her.  
Sombra starts nursing some pink monstrosity that smells like a 50/50 mix of vodka and sugar and keeps talking between sips.  
“Yeah I figured, anything not personal I probably already know.” She states as if it were obvious fact. Which admittedly, considering Sombras abilities, it probably is. “Also, if I may point out, Angela Ziegler is still alive.”  
It's Amélies turn to put her hands up in surrender.  
“Fine. What do you want to know?”  
“Well most things, kind of my job, but let's start with this - why kill Angela? Talon wants her dead, sure, but not enough to send you after her, and you don't care about their goals enough to go for it on your off days. Why not just go hang out on some beach on a paradise island, or go back to Chateau Gaillard or whatever it's called?”  
“It's Château Guillard. Gaillard is a ruin.” Amélie replies, putting a bit of extra emphasis on the accent on the a.  
“Fine, fine, just get to the point will you?”  
“She was very loyal to my dear departed husband, and to Overwatch. Loyal to a fault” Amélie spits out the last few words.  
“Yeah speaking of, why kill him? Talon pays, but you're already rich right? Was the sex _that_ disappointing?”  
Amélies voice goes neutral, and her face blank, as if she were a doctor calmly reciting a list of side effects. “He was physically and verbally abusive. The sex was worse than disappointing. Overwatch did not want to deal with the scandal, and she couldn't deal with thinking her best friend was like that. And so, I want them dead.”  
Sombras face drops, some part of her obviously regretting pushing Amélie this far. Sombra is rude, but not an asshole. Atleast that's how she prefers to view herself.  
Amélie simply grabs the nearest of Sombras giant order of drinks as payback, and starts sipping, regaining a bit of composure. “So, was this story good enough to warrant your help?”  
Sombra stammers for a few seconds, then puts her thoughts back in order and formulates a reply  
“Holy shit Amé, of course I'll help.” Amélies eyebrows raise for a second in surprise at the nickname; they both _know_ each others names, (or atleast, Amélie _thinks_ she knows Sombras actual name, though you can never be quite sure with her.), but they are rarely actually used, especially in this form. It does feel comfortable however, though that might just be the alcohol talking.  
“So,” Sombra continues, now comfortably back in her mysterious hacker-persona “you might want to know that Dr Ziegler will be flying to the old Overwatch-base in Gibraltar in a day or two. Seems she doesn't quite feel safe with you this close.”  
“Good. She shouldn't.” Amélie replies, bringing up her phone. “Am I booking one or two tickets?”  
Sombra puts her hand on Amélies phone and calmly, but decidedly, pushes it and Amélies hand down on the table.  
“Hey, you might be a good shot, and I am a fucking fantastic hacker, but we can't take down an entire base by ourselves. I get the whole _revenge-obsessed murderer-_ thing but calm down amiga.”  
Amélie acquiesces. Killing the bitch won't be as easy as she had hoped, especially if that englishwoman is going to continue to be an annoyance. “Fine. What do you suggest then?”  
“We convince Talon to go all-out for once! Call in some favors, seduce some people, blackmail others until we convince them to do it all for us, and you just land the final shot.”  
“Fine. I'll call the council, you get to work with the whole blackmail and seduction-thing” Amélie says, impatiently waving at Sombra to just get going with it.  
Sombra, of course, does not move a muscle, except to tap on what looks like some card game on one of her many tablets and take a last sip of that pink monstrosity of a drink.

“Sombra.” Amélie tries again to convince her to start working, in a mixture of a growl and grumble.  
“Vacation! I'm relaxing, and I'm thinking, as long as all these drinks are here, why not have some fun? Get to know each other outside of work and all that!” Sombra says enthusiastically, handing another glass of some sugary concoction over to Amélie, who does not respond verbally, but she does take a sip and lean back in her chair, grabbing a cigarette from the case in the inner pocket of her jacket.  
“Tobacco? That's so 21st century of you.” Sombra does however have to admit that right now, relaxed and indulging in some old vices, Amélie does look _surprisingly_ good.  
“It is calming, and this has been a rather stressful day. Also, is there a reason for your staring, or are you just that surprised at my habits, chérie?”  
Sombra, drifting further into her daydream, had of course not even noticed that her eyes were clearly fixated on Amélie.  
“Oh, uh...sorry. I guess I interact more with computers than humans nowadays.” Sombra says, trying to shrug off her little faux pas, not realizing that in doing so, she has betrayed an emotional weakness that Amélie, eager for payback, immediately pounces on.  
She scoots forward toward Sombra, takes a long, suggestive drag on her cigarette, and fixes her gaze. “Feeling lonely, are we?”  
Sombra laughs uncomfortably. “Spare me the femme fatale-shit Widow, I may be easy to read but that's cheating.” Back to callsigns? Amélie has definitely struck a nerve here. She does however feel a pang of sympathy for the hacker, so she presses on, but with more care in her voice this time.  
“Hey, I'll drop the femme fatale-thing if you drop the arrogant hacker-thing. I get it though, neither of our jobs leave much room for human contact. How are you holding up?”  
Sombra does actually drop her guard a little bit. She's lonely, tired, and there is a very attractive, and surprisingly nice, woman sitting in front of her.  
“Paranoid and bored. Researching a global conspiracy is not as glamorous as it sounds, and leaves a lot of time to just sit around and be scared while wired from too much caffeine. I wasn't lying about needing a vacation.”  
Amélie chuckles empathically. “Being a world class sniper is really around 90% lying on a hill feeling bored and paranoid, waiting for something to happen, so I guess we are in the same situation here.”  
“Good thing we're on vacation then!” Sombra tries to lighten the mood, raising her glass for a cheer, and Amélie responds in kind.  
  
As the evening progresses, they keep on simply drinking and talking. Both appreciate the chance to drop their guards, if just for a few hours, and both assume they won't have any opportunities to find some human contact in quite a while, considering the lives they live. They talk about their childhoods, Amélies beautiful, but sheltered life among the french aristocracy, and Sombras rough and tumble lifestyle on the streets of Dorado. They talk about their hobbies, the fact that Amélie still dances when she gets the time, about Sombras habit of going to an arcade in every city she visits, if one exists (they even find some common ground here, when Sombra reveals her long-lasting love for DDR). And they drink. Amélie guides Sombra through the world of red wine, and Sombra convinces Amélie to try a shot of mezcal. And so the night goes, until closing time starts moving in, and the staff are staring at the only two people left.  
  
“Guess it's time to get going, chérie.” Amélie says, her accent thicker now.  
“Aww, but I was having so much fun!” Sombra complains, standing up and drinking the last of her beer. “Atleast escort me back to the hotel! The global conspiracy goons won't dare attack me with the worlds best sniper by my side.”  
Amélie smirks. “You do remember that there is only one hotel in town?”  
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Let´s go!” Sombra says, pulling on Amélies arm like a bored child.  
Amélie sighs dramatically, but lets herself be dragged up from her chair. She stumbles for a second, alcohol rushing to her head, but quickly steadies herself with some help from the hacker beside her. She preemptively stares at Sombra, trying to communicate something along the lines of “Spare me your sarcastic comments, _please_.” Sombra simply grins and gives a subtle, hard to interpret wink in return. Amélie feels herself blushing involuntarily, her blue skin gaining some purple undertones that quickly fade away. Luckily, Sombra is distracted enough to not notice, swearing quietly in Spanish at some game that Amélie, in her current state, has a hard time deciphering.  
Sombra does however notice Amélie's mild curiosity and confusion, and starts trying to explain, her enthusiasm speeding up the pace of her words to the point of indecipherability. Amélie gives up on paying attention to the words being said, instead simply taking in Sombras voice, listening to its melody and rhytm, as they start walking back towards the hotel.  
“I'm guessing top floor for you, seeing as this vacation of yours presumably is not being paid out of _your_ pocket?” Amélie says as they step into the spacious, mirror covered elevator.  
“Are _you_ really ribbing _me_ for being rich, mademoiselle von i-grew-up-in-a-fucking-castle?”  
“Von is used in German names, not French.” Amélie replies, in a jokingly indignant tone, pushing the button for the top floor.  
“Oh my god you bougie fuck. And if you must know, this vacation is generously being paid for by Volskaya Industries.”  
“You really have friends in interesting places, don't you?”  
The conversation is broken off by the pling of the elevator doors opening, saving an indiscreet Sombra from revealing more possibly incriminating information.  
They both give a quick, slightly awkward wave goodbye as they start walking toward their respective suites, but as Amélie is putting her keycard in the scanner, she feels a quick tap on her shoulder,  
“Hey um, I just thought you should have this if you like need anything or for safety or something. I mean not to imply that you aren't capable or anything I just...” Sombra stops herself before she can stumble over her own words even more, and hands Amélie her extra keycard, and then briskly walks away before Amélie manages to formulate a response.  
Amélie looks over the card and chuckles a bit to herself before entering her suite. At least poor Sombra remembered to write down her room number.  
Amélie quickly falls into the routine of her evening rituals; disassembling and cleaning her rifle, letting her hair fall out of her usual ponytail and brushing it through, something which takes longer this day than most, cleaning off her makeup, and so on. In this routine however, her thoughts wander. They wander to the boring days of waiting on uncomfortable ground, rifle in hand.  
They wander to the uncomfortable memories of desparately running to a close friend for comfort, and being thrown away in favor of professional neutrality. And they wander through the day, and the feeling of being comfortable for once. And she decides to take Sombra up on her offer.  
  
Sombra, on her end, has decided to drown herself in work and caffeine. She cracks open a redbull, and starts setting up something that resembles a work station on the coffee table in the largest room of the suite. The TV in front is connected to a feed of the hotels security cameras, which, to Sombras dismay, only cover the front lobby and the elevators. This hotel really needs to up their security, she thinks to herself as she erases Amélie's hotel bill, just as a bit of warmup. The table becomes covered in tablets and laptops, some showing the esoteric economic documents of different shell companies, others displaying the login pages for various internal networks, some military, some business. Off to the side a muted twitch stream is playing, someone playing an old strategy game.  
Sombra quickly gets into the groove of trying to find the tiny mistakes, the small connection that connects a anonymous shell company to a russian oligarch, the forgotten line of old code that somehow gives her access to yet another presidents private email.  
The hope of Amélie knocking on the door, the fear that she may have made it awkward and strange gets buried under a flood of numbers and passwords, only resurfacing for a second or two before it is forcibly pushed down again.  
Sombra immerses herself in work to the point that she doesn't her the subtle click of a lock opening, nor the sound of a door sliding open. Amélie stands in the doorway a few seconds, simply admiring the hacker in her natural enviroment, before giving two short knocks on the wall, signalling her arrival. Sombra quickly spins her head around in surprise, and almost collapses at the sight of Amélie. In part simply due to surprise, and in part because, as Sombras brain so elegantly formulates it, “She is so _fucking_ beautiful.” At least, Sombra hopes that was just a thought, and not a shocked whisper. Amélie's long black hair has been freed from her usual high ponytail, and her suit jacket lies casually over her left shoulder, letting the contrast between her crisp white shirt and blue skin shine through.  
With a quick swipe of her hand, Sombra shuts down the screens showing the most delicate information, leaving a few documents up as a sign that she does not completely distrust Amélie, trying to show that she is just being careful. She ushers Amélie in, giving her a quick tour of the luxurius suite and it's amenities. Amélie indulges her, not commenting on the fact that she knows all this, considering their rooms are close to identical, save from the paintings and other decorations.  
“So yeah, mi casa es tu casa, grab anything you want from the kitchen and minibar, not like I'm paying anyway.”  
“And neither am I, it seems.” Amélie replies smiling, having been informed of her zeroed out bill. “But that is very kind of you, though first of all, you need to drink something that does not dehydrate, chérie.” Amélie says, looking pointedly at the empty cans of redbull spread over the coffee table in the middle of the room and handing Sombra a glass of water.  
Sombra rolls her eyes, but accepts.  
“So what's up? You seem a bit too relaxed to be in any immediate danger so I'm guessing that's not why you came over. You _feeling lonely_?” Sombra asks, imitating Amélie's earlier tone of voice, and surprising both herself and Amélie with her directness.  
“No one is about to come crashing through the windows, guns blazing as far as I know.” Amelie chuckles, “The answer is simply that I enjoyed your company, and that I would like to keep enjoying it, if that seems an acceptable proposition.”  
Sombra replies by smiling and raising her glass in a toast, and they both settle down in the sofa in the middle of the room, Sombra hurriedly cleaning up the coffee table a bit, making room for the small plate of complimentary macarons that Amélie has decided to bring with her from the kitchen.  
“Hey, you wanna play a game?” Sombra asks, grabbing ahold of her earlier courage.  
Amélie raises her eyebrows, pausing in the middle of picking up a macaron from the plate.  
Sombra walks up to the minibar, grabbing a bottle of what looks to be a very expensive cognac and two shot glasses. Sombra does not feel like sobering up quite yet, Amélie intuits. She agrees. The problem with implants increasing ones bodily capacity is that your liver sometimes deals with things a little too fast.  
“So, as said; I want us to get to know each other. We take turns asking questions, and you either tell the truth, or take a shot.”  
“So either you get information, or you lower my inhibitions and impulse control?”  
“Exactly!” Sombra says, winking and placing the two glasses on either side of the table, filling both to the brim.  
“Predictable as ever. I start.”  
Their questions slowly increase in intimacy as their inhibitions start disappearing, moving from the innocent, if mildly flirtatious, to the risque, to the personal.  
“So, the shutting computers off without touching them. _How_ do you do that?”  
Sombra turns her back towards Amélie, grabbing onto the back of her t-shirt and pulling it off in one swift move, revealing a long, thick purple line following her spine, tendrils moving out towards her limbs, fading in colour the further they get from the center.  
“Made my own implants. I'm basically about as much computer as I am human.”  
“Was it painful?” Amélie asks, carefully tracing her finger along the lines under Sombra's skin.  
“Very. Not much anaesthetic available where I'm from.” Sombra says, leaning into Amélies touch.  
“Anyway, I think it's your turn to ask a question.” Amélie says, still absentmindedly letting her fingers dance on Sombra's back.  
Sombra, now full of liquid couraqe, decides to continue her pattern of assertiveness. She climbs onto Amélie's lap, placing her lips centimeters away from the other womans and her fingers on the top button of Amélie's shirt. “May I?”  
“You may.” Amélie's voice is deep, full of unsated thirst. Sombra wastes no time getting the white shirt off, nearly ripping apart the fabric at the seams. Her long, claw-like nails leave dark red marks across blue skin, Amélie giving out hoarse breaths in return.  
As her fingers move downwards, Amélie pushes them away however, letting out a noise halfway between a moan and a laugh. “Not with those nails you don't my dear.” Amélie says, putting a cold finger against Sombra's lips. Sombra smiles hungrily, and in a few swift moments, Amélie's pants have disappeared somewhere, and Sombra has placed herself on a throw pillow between Amélie's legs, again asking the same question; “May I?”. “Please.” Amélie answers, in that same deep voice, now with a hint of desperation, a desperation that Sombra is happy to relieve. She moves slowly inward, biting Amélie's inner thigh on the way, feeling a little bit of heat flowing to the places she puts her teeth. She drags her tongue slowly across Amélie's front, receiving a lovely shudder and a hand grasping at her hair in return. She takes this as encouragement to increase the intensity, which she does, just slowly enough to keep Amélie continuously frustrated.  
“Sombra.” She hears her name said in that fantastic low growl, and decides to let Amé out of her misery. As she drags her claws across Amélie's chest, she feels her entire body tense, her back arching, before the tension releases and the exhausted frenchwoman collapses back into the sofa.  
Sombra stands up, kisses the tired womans forehead, and grabs them both a glass of water from the kitchen, stealing the second-to-last macaron from Amélie's plate on the way.  
Amélie allows herself to drift off to a blissful, for once dreamless sleep, Sombra's soft swearing and keyboard-taps as she returns to her work bringing with them a sense of safety and comfort.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter of my first fic, containing my first sex scene! This was fun to write.  
> Also; yall should see the first version of that last scene that I decided against after a while. Hint; physical touch plays a much smaller role, the fact that sombra can basically use electronics with her mind, and that widow also has implants plays a much larger one.  
> Also; i think i got all the relevant content warnings in the tags, but please do message or comment if i missed anything!  
> Playlist while writing chapter 1;my mind is a bad neighborhood – highasakite, Drink about you – kate nash, Ecailles de lune, pt.1 – Alcest, Boys Aside – Sofya Wang, Ancient Ruins – Chainless.  
> Also, if you feel like the pink monstrosity that Sombra was drinking interests you, its called a "Rosa Pantern".  
> There should be some more Tracer in the next chapter, if that is what youre here for.


	2. “Permission granted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags updated, I would recommend giving them a read.

Angela Ziegler does not get nightmares. Instead, she has migraines. The sort of migraines that cover your vision with floating, colorful spots until light becomes unbearable. The sort of migraines that feel like someone just split your skull with an axe.  
Some days, she feels grateful for this weird quirk in her psychology, understanding that this has saved her from many nights where she would otherwise have been crushed by her guilt and worry.  
_**  
**_ Today is not one of those days, there is simply too much to do, too many people to help, and so, Angela is forced to simply soldier through the pain, concentrating instead on the pain of others. __**  
** At the very least, there is no shortage of this specific distraction.  
  
In the old Overwatch, the actual Overwatch, Angela rarely actually treated patients, only the most complicated and urgent cases. There were others for the simpler stuff, nurses, automated systems and less accomplished doctors, and with all the research deadlines she was constantly fighting, there was simply no time. Put simply, there was no reason to have one of the worlds best doctors and most accomplished researchers dealing with sprained limbs and broken ribs.  
This Overwatch, on the other hand, didn't even have a doctor until Angela came running back, and that wasn't even of her own volition. Everyone knew some basic first aid, of course, but basic first aid is simply not enough when you're dealing with bullet wounds and broken limbs.  
  
And so, Angela needs to get to work, first order of business being convincing the always energetic Lena Oxton to calm down and get back in bed, or if that fails, at least convince her that going on a run less than 24 hours after receiving a major concussion is a spectacularly bad idea.  
“I feel fine love, I promise!”  
“A lack of noticeable symptoms does not mean that you are unaffected.” Angela says, trying to keep up her usual air of professionalism. “Simply a few days of rest and observation, to make sure that she didn't do any lasting damage, and then you will be free to run and teleport how much you want.”  
Lena looks up at the taller woman, trying to use her bright brown puppy-eyes to her advantage.  
“Isn't there anything I can do? I can't just lie in bed for a week!”  
Angela sighs, understanding that she needs to compromise here.  
“You can help here. Everything in this clinic is still in disarray, and it lets me keep an eye on you.”  
Lena smiles in relief, knowing that for her, several days without having anything to do and no way to help would have been pretty close to torture.  
“Okay! So, where do I start?”  
Angela looks around for a second, trying to figure out what to prioritize, and her migraine worsens for a second when she is reminded of the sheer amount of work that needs to be done.  
“A lot of our digital medical records seem to have been corrupted in the years we were gone, so if you could start scanning the paper copies maybe?” Angela motions to an old metal shelf, filled with rows upon rows of binders and stray papers, and Lena's eyes widen in horror for a second before she gets to work, as always determined to do everything she can to help. Even if that in this case means paperwork.  
  
A flurry of names that Lena half-recognizes pass by as she starts alphabetizing and scanning the disorganized files, and she feels a lump in her throat when she understands just how many of these files end with either a “KIA” or “MIA”. But she keeps working, managing a small chuckle at the confused scribblings contained in her own journal. She even has her own unique diagnosis, “chronal disassociation”, written in big block letters at the top of the page. Which might as well just mean time traveller, but scientists love their fancy words, Lena thinks to herself as she falls back into her routine.  
And so the day continues, Lena stuck in a calming loop of taking out a file, scanning it in, putting it back on the shelf in its rightful place, and so on, until Angela breaks her out of it with a reminder that she also needs to eat at some point.  


* * *

  
At the same time, in a hotel room in a small village in southern Switzerland, a a small red notification pops up on a screen.  
“Hey Amé, are you a double agent for Overwatch?” Sombra says, with a surprisingly casual voice.  
Amélie gives Sombra a skeptical look, turned slightly threatening by the fact that she is currently holding a very sharp, slightly bloodstained kitchen knife. “No.”  
“Just wondering, seeing as some medical journals with your name just appeared on one of their internal networks.”  
“Gerard always insisted that I use their doctors. He didn't trust anyone else. Why it would be relevant for them now is beyond me though.” Amélie says, turning back to the cutting board and continuing to chop up the large piece of beef in front of her into bite-size pieces.  
  
Sombra shrugs, and continues poking around in Overwatch's network.  
After a while, she breaks the comfortable silence. “Yup, seems like Ziegler is back at work. Or atleast, someone is scanning in and updating a lot of medical journals over in Gibraltar.”  
“No surprises there, she did always love her work.” As usual, Amélie's voice turns slightly colder when talking about Angela. “Does my file still contain the official story?”  
Sombra smirks a bit. “Ah yes, the story of poor Amélie, so talented and beautiful. The graceful ballerina, married to the stoic soldier. But alas, t'was not to last! The evil villains of Talon swept her away, their psychologists and doctors turning her into something else entirely. She returns, ordered to murder her once beloved husband in cold blood. Once it is done, she becomes _The Widowmaker_ , feeling nothing except in the moment of the kill.” Sombra delivers her monologue with theatralic gusto, getting a loving smirk from Amélie in return. “Yup, still in there. Actually, I wanted to ask, who actually knows what happened, except for the obvious?”  
Amélie smiles, though to Sombra it feels more like a predator baring her fangs.  
“Alive? Ziegler.”  
Sombra has 3 distinct thoughts in very rapid succesion;  
The woman she has been sharing a bed with the last few days is still an absolutely fucking terrifying person.  
  
Those teeth would look very good sunken into her neck.  
  
What happens if say, some of the more naïve members of Overwatch find a bit of the organizations dirty laundry?  
  
Sombra decides to continue those last 2 lines of thoughts later in the evening, because for now, said terrifying woman is plating up what looks like the start of a fantastic dinner and pouring up two large glasses of wine.  
  
Dinner, like most things these last days, is a heavenly indulgence. Amélie, Sombra has learned, is a fantastic chef, and she relishes in the opportunity to actually cook food now that she has access to a good kitchen and fresh ingredients, something Sombra is very grateful for. As they grab a glass of sweet white wine to accompany dessert, Sombra starts going through her plan.  
“So, regarding the whole _lets kill all of overwatch_ -thing. I'm thinking we have two people that are gonna be easy to convince. O'Deoiran hates Ziegler too, and Ogundimu's whole thing is really just that he likes conflict. We get them and everyone else probably just joins in out of fear of either being shot by you, blackmailed by me, thrown of a cliff by Ogundimu, or experimented on by Moira. Sound good?”  
“I'll talk to Moira, seeing as we apparently have some things in common. What about Reyes?”  
“Gabe? Nah, he's off on his own rage fueled revenge-thingy. Now, with your permission, there is one more thing I would like to do to in order to sow some seeds of distrust in Overwatch.”  
Amélie tilts her head, indicating to Sombra to continue this line of thought.  
“So, I was thinking about the English girl. She seems very much into the idea of them being the grand heroes and saviors of the world, right?”  
Amélie nods thoughtfully, beginning to see what Sombra is getting at.  
“I'm thinking that it would be very fun to see what happens if that image gets a little shattered, say by someone sending a message containing some clues about your actual story.” Sombra continues, a manipulative smile spreading across her lips. Amélie isn't quite sure why Sombra's skills at emotional manipulation awaken some interesting thoughts in her, but she pushes that aside for a second.  
  
“Permission granted.” Amélie raises her glass in a cheer, and Sombra responds enthusiastically, a little splash of wine spilling out over the table as their glasses meet. “To murder and manipulation!” Sombra says, in a tone of voice somewhere between happy and depressingly self-ironic.  
Amélie chuckles, and kisses Sombra on the cheek. “To murder and manipulation.”  
  
A wave of loss and loneliness fall over the two for a second, both realizing that soon, these days of wine, indulgence, sex and comfort will be over, and both will simply go back to what they just cheered for.  
  
Amélie plants another kiss, now on Sombra's neck, deciding that these feelings are best pushed aside for later; there is still some time left for enjoyment, still some time to hold the loneliness at bay. Sombra tilts her head to the side, exposing even more vulnerable skin, and again there is that predatory grin on Amélie's face. She puts her soft lips back on Sombra, and lets them rest there for a second before starting to bite down. She slowly increases the pressure, and Sombra has to put a hand in front her mouth to avoid letting out a noise loud enough to worry the other guests in the hotel. The pain is almost overwhelming, though just as it begins to near the line between pleasurable and simply painful, Amélie lets go. Sombra allows herself to breathe out, slowly and deliberately, as she feels a small, almost to small to notice, drop of blood flow down from her neck towards her collarbone, leaving a faint red line as it goes. Amélie's eyes intently follow this small red line, until it disappears under Sombra's t-shirt. Sombra leans back in her chair, puts her hands up and gives Amélie an inviting smile.  
“May I?” Amélie straddles Sombra's hips, and puts a hand just under the hem of Sombra's shirt.  
“Permission granted.”  
Amélie gets rid of the shirt in one swift movement, and then the tip of her tongue starts following the red line, from Sombra's neck, past her collarbone, down towards her chest.  
As Amélie's tongue flicks past Sombras nipple, Sombra shudders with pleasure for a second.  
Sombra decides that her being topless while Amélie is still fully clothed feels _very_ unfair, and starts clumsily unbuttoning Amélie's shirt as Amélie leans in for another bite on Sombra's neck, a distraction that makes Sombra's current self-imposed task even more time-consuming.  
  
The reward is well worth the work however. Amélie appears to have decided to go all out with her lingerie today, and is wearing a almost corset-like bra, with dark red and black lace crossing over each other to form subtle roses over her chest. Sombra and Amélie both evidently had about the same plans for the evening, though Sombra went the opposite route, foregoing underwear entirely instead. She likes to consider herself a practical person. Sombra also generally does not consider herself to be a person who notices what perfumes people are wearing, but in this moment, she manages to pinpoint the fact that Amélie, the pretentious fuck, has somehow managed to match her perfume with her lingerie, a feat Sombra didn't even know was possible. She smells like roses, with an undertone of metallic blood.  
Sombra can't help but laugh at how her partner always manages to be so very over the top, though her laugh is quickly stifled by Amélie's lips falling over hers.  
“This is not the time for your mocking, my love.” Amélie comments softly as she pulls her lips away, grabbing hold of Sombra's hands and pulling them downwards.  
Sombra grins, the thought appearing in her head that Amélie should not get what she wants this easily.  
  
And before Amélie can react, Sombra has broken Amélie's grip and pushed her off her lap, and now somehow has her pinned against the balcony door, one hand firmly gripping both of Amélie's wrists, the other dragging long, sharp nails across Amélie's back.  
A rush of adrenaline flows through Amélie's body, and she decides to relinquish control to the other woman for a while, her body relaxing into Sombra's capable hands.  
Sombra unhooks Amélie's bra deftly, and allows Amélie's hands to fall free as she reaches down to place soft kisses around Amélie's chest, occasionally giving her nipples a small bite when she wants to hear Amélie's small, stifled moans.  
Sombra drags her nails once more across Amélie's back, and Amélie feels her entire body stiffen and her back arch, and then relax, as Sombra lets her fingertips dance from her back towards the front of her pants. The only thought present in Amélie's mind is at this point a silent plea; _touch me._ _Please._  
  
Sombra does not immediately oblige. Instead, she leads Amélie away from the window, gently pushing her down into the sofa, making sure to place a silken-clad pillow behind Amélie's head.  
This is not out of some desire of privacy; the sofa is still in sight through the balcony windows, though the only possible watchers outside are the mountains, and they've probably seen more shocking things. Instead, it appears to Amélie as if Sombra simply worries about her comfort. An unnecessary, but appreciated gesture.  
The interruption of touch is not appreciated however. Amélie grabs a hold of Sombra's now messy hair, and pulls the other woman ontop of her, her other hand dragging across the fabric between Sombra's legs. Sombra starts rocking her hips in tandem with Amélie's hand, desperate for more sensation, and Amélie gives a pleased smile in return, clearly enjoying the sensation of being back in control.  
Sombra still wants more though, and takes the situation into her own hands, letting her fingers fall under her pants, making slow circles around her clitoris.  
Amélie simply lets this happen, moving her hand out of the way, placing it softly around Sombra's throat instead. She looks up at Sombra with caring eyes, and Sombra nods happily. For some stupid reason, Sombra trusts this french madwoman enough to put herself in a situation where she has no control over her own oxygen, just for the pleasure of it.  
Amelié tightens her grip, restricting Sombra's bloodflow, applying just enough pressure to flood Sombra with sensation, never enough to put her in actual danger. She has clearly done this before, though in other contexts for other reasons.  
  
That thought fills Sombra with a wave of beautiful adrenaline, and the movements her fingers make are no longer slow and deliberate, but shaky and quick.  
Amélie, increases the pressure, then lets go, confirming that Sombra's trust was well placed and allowing her to let out a few sharp breaths, the two smiling happily at each other. Then, Amélie grabs hold of Sombra's hair again, pushing her head down towards Amélie's neck.  
Sombra bites down, letting Amélie's flesh muffle her shaky moans as every muscle she has tenses for a few seconds, and then relaxes, just as a drop of blood leaves a metallic taste on her tongue.  
  
For a minute or so, the two simply lie intertwined on the sofa, as their breathing slows to a more reasonable pace, until Amélie interrupts.  
“Let's actually finish that dessert, then my turn?”  
Sombra gives a thumbs up, but does not move off Amélie.  


* * *

  
Lena and Angela's dinner is not quite spartan, but it's definitely no luxurious indulgence. Both have a tendency to lose track of time, Lena simply because she gets distracted, and Angela because there is always _so much_ to do. Due to this, the two get no company for the evening. Mei, in keeping with her near perfect sleep schedule has already started winding down the day, and most others have their own things to deal with at the moments, with Brigitte trying to keep Reinhardt's armor in somewhat functioning shape, the giant Russian lady trying to keep herself in _fantastic_ shape, and so on.  
  
As such, most of dinner passes quietly. Lena and Angela do not dislike each other, but their relationship is unclear; are they simply people working for the same organization? That might have been true in another incarnation of Overwatch, but now there are simply not enough people here to be able to keep up that kind of privacy and distance. Are they doctor and patient? Yes, but few patients regularly save their doctors lives from brainwashed murderers.  
  
Lena, starting to get jittery, finally breaks the silence. “So, how did they drag you into this?”  
“First time or second time?”  
“Whichever you feel makes the most interesting story.” Lena tries to keep the conversation light and happy, so she says this in the most chipper voice she can without it seeming strange.  
“Well, first time was when I was almost fresh out of med school. Me and another student had been researching some new technology involving regenerating cells, and Overwatch picked us up before anyone else had a chance to. I was so excited to be working with the people who were at the time heroes, to me and the world. So, how about you?”  
Lena shrugs a little. “Same story basically, promising young pilot, and they made the first and best offer. I would get to be a hero, and I would get to test pilot the latest tech.” Lena's smile fades a little as she moves towards the end of that sentence, which Angela quickly picks up on.  
“Well, despite our slightly changed situation, I feel like we are still doing something good. For example, I am currently keeping you from making your injuries worse.”  
Lena laughs in defeat, just as a small pling comes from her phone. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, thanks for giving me something to do, in return I think I might actually heed your advice and get to bed early.” Lena waves off Angela's worry, and rises from her chair, as Angela throws her a skeptical look. “You are _sure_ you don't have any sneaky plans of going off to the gym? I will find out, you know.”  
“I'm sure, feel like I've done enough for today honestly. See ya tomorrow!” Lena waves as she starts walking towards her room, having found a good excuse to leave Angela with the dishes. Angela _did_ tell her to rest after all.  
  
Lena quickly changes into just a sleeping shirt, and jumps into bed, starting to fiddle with her phone. As she glances over her inbox, a small wave of confusion appears as she sees the “name” of the sender of her latest received message. That is, the name has been replaced by just a string of random symbols. Lena assumes it's just a random bug, until she reads the message.  
“Lacroix, Amélie. Her files make her seem awfully clumsy for a ballet dancer, don't they?”  
This can't be good, she thinks immediately. This is definitely the sort of thing she should tell Winston about. She starts to grab some clothes from the floor, but then doubts herself. The message is ominous and cryptic, but Lena is a deeply curious human being, and that curiosity has been piqued. And it can't hurt to take a look before reporting in, right?  
Lena decides to sleep on this decision, and as she continues to nervously fiddle with her phone, unconsciousness slowly takes hold over her.  
  
Angela is fine with getting left with the cleaning up, if it means that Lena gets some rest for once. She finishes up the dishes, makes herself a coffee, pours in a hint of whiskey, and gets back to the clinic.  
The thought that she should probably worry about the amount of sleep she is getting aswell does not occur to her, and instead, she keeps working, taking inventory of everything.  
Unsurprisingly, they have everything needed to keep a soldier up and shooting; adrenaline, painkillers of all sorts, a couple of basic antibiotics.  
Then there's a few assorted things that are simply good to have, just in case; anti-retrovirals, 4 packets of lithium, some benzodiadepines, anti-histamines and so on.  
Angela is relieved that they atleast have everything needed for surgery, though that patient is going to have a very bad time afterwards considering they have almost zero anti-emetics. But if some worst case scenario arises, at least they'll live, if uncomfortably for the first month or so.  
It would probably be good to try and get some atropine and a muscle relaxant or two, just in case.  
The problem with the concept of _just in case_ in Overwatch's current state is that there are a lot of _just in cases_ that you could take into account.   
Talon might try and poison them, Lena could develop any number of strange side effects at any point considering the time-travel thing, Reinhardt is getting old despite his insistence to the contrary, Mei was in cryofreeze for years and really, who knows how that affects the body, and so on.  
  
Angela's migraine comes back with full force, and she casts a longing glance towards the medicine cabinet full of lovely little things that would remove this problem entirely. She decides against this, taking a swig of her strengthened coffee instead, though the caffeine seems to have little effect. And when she is forced to recount one pillbox 3 times in a row, she decides it is time for bed.  
She manages to atleast throw off her coat before collapsing on top of the covers, sleep arriving quickly, though it is uneasy, Angela's mind continously moving between half-awake and sleeping until dawn arrives.  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The perfume is Eau de Protection by Etat Libre d'Orange. It's quite nice, though a bit heavy on the florals.  
> Regarding the breathplay; honestly like... don't try this at home. Safe, Sane and Consenusal/RACK yall for the love of god/s if you do. Be careful, know what you're doing, do your goddamn research.  
> I was given the advice to indulge re sex scene. I think I followed it.
> 
> The writing process of this chapter goes as follows; write 3k in 4 days. Get massive writing block. Return 3 weeks later, consume a silly quantity of rum and coffee, finish and upload at 2 am. 
> 
> Listened to while writing this chapter;  
> Shh by Silvana Imam and Beatrice Eli  
> Harm by IO Echo  
> Am I Dreaming by Yukari. 
> 
> Update schedule will be once a month unless I change my mind in one direction or another.  
> As always, constructive criticism/reminder to tag stuff is welcomed and appreciated.


	3. "To murder and manipulation."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK YALL.  
> Look I had one heck of a yr i moved like three times also I started uni it's been alot. But im back and ready for plot.

 

_"To murder and manipulation."_  
Amélie's handwriting was spotless. Flowing, feminine and controlled.   
Sombra let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a wounded cry.   
The apartment Sombra had woken up too was spotless, all hints of their short time together removed, save for two champagne glasses, one empty, one filled to the brim and a small note beside them. She wants to throw both to the floor, burn the note, rip it into a thousand small pieces.   
Amélie is not the only one with a flair for the dramatic, Sombra thought to herself.   
Sombra does not do any of those things. Instead, she sips her glass, opens up her laptop, erases all evidence of their hotel rooms being occupied the last week (except for the receptionists memory, the technology just isn't quite there yet), grabs a last minute (but still first class) ticket to Numbani and calls up a cab.   
  


* * *

* * *

  
  
Lena wakes up earlier than usual. Likely earlier than Angela would like her too, but she seems to think that Lena should never actually get out of bed, so her opinions are out the window for now.   
Lena is never slow, but this morning, she is even more like a hummingbird than usual. Her jeans and t-shirt fly on, and she almost runs to the kitchen for breakfast. It's a wonder she doesn't break the jar of orange marmalade as she throws it onto the counter. Her tea and toast are both consumed at breakneck speed as she moves through the corridor. Usually, she takes the time to savor a good cup, but the combination of stress, anxiety and curiousity poking at the back of her mind does not allow her to do so today.   
  
As she arrives at the clinic, it is blissfully quiet.   
Lena spots the cup Angela presumably left the day before, and recoils a bit at the smell of stale alcohol. The doctor really should take better care of herself, she thinks as she pours it out in the sink. But, this also means that Angela likely will be a bit late for work today, and she has a feeling that Angela should not know what she's currently up to.   
She allows herself to breathe for the first time in minutes, as her fingers start fluttering between the files on the bookshelf, until she finds the first one under the letter L.   
At least "Lacroix" is an easy name to find in an alphabetical filing system. Small blessings.   
  
As she starts reading, that blessing seems smaller and smaller. Injuries clearly from physical violence, all listed as accidents. Lena knows what someone getting the shit kicked out of them looks like versus what tripping and falling looks like, especially considering her own tendency to get into fights and her clumsiness. And at the bottom of every page, Angela's signature.   
Lena feels a very strong and sudden need to kick the shit out of something. Gym. Angela's opinions on her recovery are completely out the fucking window now. 

* * *

* * *

  
Amélie's breathing is controlled, each second on every intake of oxygen being counted.   
The air on the plane is thick with the smell of flowers and powder, some fur-clad woman sitting near Amélie clearly not understanding the value of control and temperance when it comes to perfumes. Surely the other passengers wouldn't be that angry if Widowmaker killed her and threw her and her oversprayed clothes off the plane?   
  
She decides not to break her cover over something so small, instead swallowing two aspirin and refocusing on trying to work through her priorities, sorting them into primary and secondary objectives. First, find out _why_ exactly Moira hates Ziegler so deeply. Preferably without asking Sombra. (I am so sorry cherié, but it's time to get back to work.)   
Second, use that information to get her to devote her efforts to bringing down Overwatch instead of whatever pet mad scientist-project she's currently obsessing over.   
Third, put a bullet through Ziegler's skull.   
And after that?  
  
Amélie chugs what is left of her gin and tonic. She will burn that bridge when she comes to it.   
Her line of work doesn't really have that much of a retirement plan. Traditionally, it's something along the lines of; keep working until someone younger and better comes along and murders you (with a bullet in the eye, shot through a scope?). Not quite a villa on Côte d'Azur, is it?   
Prioritize. O'Deorian. Why does she hate Ziegler?   
Amélie opens up her laptop and starts searching away, looking through old chat-logs and research papers, her hands dancing across the keyboard. They worked together in Overwatch, yes, but what happened after?   
The flight to Oasis goes by fast as Amélie dives into her work. Sombra isn't the only one with a love for exposing secrets. Especially if those secrets happen to help Amélie in her crusade.  
  


* * *

* * *

  
"Your technique is sloppy."  
Lena's punch goes wide, knuckles just scraping the edge of the boxing bag, as she lets out a garbled swear.   
"You can't just sneak up on people like that, it's dangerous!"  
The large Russian women shrugs. "You missed a still punching bag. Take a break, training when distracted is bad habit."  
Lena's shoulders slump down, as she sits down on a nearby wooden bench and throws her gloves on the floor in frustration.  
  
Zarya only gives a quick look, and gets going on her own training program as Lena watches in adoration from the sidelines. Zarya will clearly not be the one to initiate this conversation, Lena thinks to herself. After a while of watching in awe, Lena gathers the courage.  
  
"Why are you here?"  
Zarya raises an eyebrow from under her barbell.  
"I mean why did you come to Overwatch, why come back to a disgraced organization?"  
"I was no longer needed in Russia, and you needed the help. Simple." Zarya grunts out the last word as she pushes up her weights for a last repetition, and then brings them down to the floor and sits back up. "Why do you ask? Doubts?"  
Lena nods. "The first one was disgraced for a reason, and a lot of things were done badly." - She looks down at the thing on her chest that keeps her in the right time and place. "Maybe it's the same mistake a second time."  
Zarya sits down next to the smaller woman, and places a firm, reassuring hand on her shoulder.  
"Doubts are good. Keeps you doing the right thing. But do not let them keep you from doing the right thing either."  
Lena chuckles a bit. "Why are you so wise and self-confident all of a sudden?"  
"I have been talking to a monk in Nepal. He recommended I add yoga to my daily routine. You should try it!"  
Zarya laughs heartily, going back to her weights, as Lena heads for the shower. Her anxiety is still high, and there's still no concrete plan, but adrenaline, watching a muscular woman work out and getting good, if vague advice certainly did not make it worse. She decides to give Winstons office a visit after, not necessarily to discuss the text or what she found, just to talk to an old friend.

* * *

* * *

  
Angela's migraine has not disappeared as she wakes up. Diminished, yes, but not quite gone yet.   
She turns to the side and picks up her cellphone, groaning as the harsh light hits her eyes telling her that she has very much overslept. And that Winston wants a meeting with her in 15. She grabs the nearest pair of pants, not caring that it's the same pair she wore yesterday, and the day before that.   
  
She finds the time to get a cup of coffee to bring to the meeting at least, small favors.   
A deep, thoughtful voice responds as she knocks on the door.  
"Ah, Angela! Come in!"   
Winstons office is covered in screens and papers, showing a mix of maps of military deployments to physics equations. His capability to deal with the workload has always impressed Angela, especially now with the recall of Overwatch.   
  
"Lovely to see you Winston, as always." She makes space for her cup as she sits down, moving what seems to be a paper on the implications of Lena's condition on modern metaphysics out of the way.   
"And you. As lovely as it is too see you, there are some things to discuss. First of all, I feel the need too tell you that Talon appears to have been keeping an eye on our communications. It is likely they are aware of your presence here. Me and Athena have been working to secure the channels, and they should no longer have access."   
  
Angela simply nods in response. She has felt unsafe for a long time, and while used to it, it would have been nice to not feel hunted even here.   
  
"As you understand, this means that Widowmaker will likely come after you again. I want to put Lena on the task of dealing with this, as she has proven effective before." He nods pointedly as he says this. "But I do need you to sign off on this, as I do not want to impede her recovery."  
  


No professor ever mentioned this specific ethical problem in med-school, Angela thinks bitterly to herself. Her thought process is interrupted by the door being swung open, of course by the subject in question.   
"Lena! Impeccable timing as always. Take a seat." Winston motions to the empty chair next to Angela. "I was just asking Angela if she would be willing to sign off on you going on a mission."  
  
Lena seems distracted and lost in thought, but her eyes still widen with excitement at the prospect of having a thing to do that isn't bookkeeping. "Oh! Great! Where am I going?"  
Angela jumps in before Lena has the chance too run off. "Do wait one minute, I need time to think. Your recovery has been fast, and I am skeptical off my ability to keep you from physical activity." Angela takes a quick look at Lena's newly washed hair. "I do implore you to be careful though. Please." The last word has a clear hint of unprofessional emotion, but no one comments on it.  
"I will, promise!"  
  
Winston picks back up the briefing. "Great. Now then, as far we know, Widowmaker is planning another attack on Angela, and knows she's here. She is currently on her way to Oasis, presumably to meet with O'Deorain. Lena, I need you to find out why, and impede her plans any way you can. And if possible, bring her back to us." Again, there's that hint of unprofessionalism.   
  
A million thoughts run through Lena's head, none of which she's currently capable of dealing with. But she does need more information and time, especially away from Overwatch, and this seems like the optimal way to get that. A chance to fly again is also hard to pass up.  
"I'm on it. I'll start doing checkups on the Orca in a bit, check if she's ready to fly."  
"Thank you Lena, I think that's all the official business for today. If none of you have anything to bring up?" Winston motions across the table to the two women.   
Lena is almost bouncing in her chair, leg shaking the table enough to almost make the papers fly off. Angela on the other hand seems to still be just waking up, nursing her mug like it's whats keeping her on this world. "Well then! I wish I had the time to be social, but I know we all have things to do." Winstons eyes turn down for a second, and then his face lights back up again, trying to imbue the others with hope.   
  
Lena starts walking off through the corridors down to the hangar, but is stopped by a gentle hand on her shoulder. The doctor looks down on the shorter woman with an unreadable expression. "Hey, you seem to be making a habit of saving my life here, directly or indirectly. Let me know if there's anything you need, please."   
How the hell could this emphatic, careful woman hide years of abuse? Lena opens her mouth to start rambling but stops herself at the last second. "Thank you luv, but you know me. I'll be fine!"   
She manages a smile as she veers off toward the hangar, though Angela doesn't seem entirely convinced. She does not give Angela the time to reply. 

* * *

* * *

  
As Amélie steps off the plane, she is quickly separated off from the rest of the passengers by a pair of intimidating-looking persons in dark suits. Intimidating to the crowd that is. She is unsure if Moira or Sombra decided that she shouldn't have to go through the inconvenience of customs, but she is grateful for the courtesy nonetheless. She is escorted to a black hovercar, subtle enough to avoid attention from your average citizen and official enough to avoid attention from police and other such annoyances.   
It cruises quickly trough the bustling streets of Oasis as Amélie gets used to the new location. It's a far cry from the quiet village she arrived from, and it will take some time getting used too. When you are a professional sniper, it's always good to understand your surroundings.   
  
The car comes to a soft halt in the parking lot of the university, and Amélie is pointed to a side door of the large building. It seems that Moira either has her own private guards, or simply trusts Amélie enough that she thinks it's not needed for the suits to escort her in. An interesting choice.   
Amélie follows the long corridor to Moira's private laboratory, offered to her as the Minister of Genetics of Oasis. It took much work, clean and dirty, for her to get that position, but it has proven valuable during the last years.   
  
Amélie enters the lab and goes unnoticed for a few seconds at least, as the scientist appears distracted by inspecting the work of her assistants. She says nothing as she walks around the lab, but everyone she gets near speeds up their work no matter how sensitive it seems to be.   
Finally, she notices Amélie in the corner of her eye.   
"Right, everyone dismissed for the today. 06:00 tomorrow, sharp."   
The researchers quickly scurry out, giving Amélie a wide berth. Oasis is accepting, but blue-ish purple is still an unusual skin tone, and she carries a certain aura.   
  
"Well! My favorite research subject, welcome to my humble workplace. What can I do for you? Are your implants acting up? In need of a specially designed poison? Something to keep you awake and alert?"   
"I'll take that as a compliment. None of those, my proposal is more mutually beneficial."  
Moira casts a predatory gaze on Amélie.  
"It was. Well, my office?"  
She does not wait for an answer to the question, simply expecting Amélie to follow as she walks through a second set of doors.   
The office is impersonal, almost empty save a workdesk and two chairs. As Moira sits down, said desk lights up, the touchscreen on it's top recognizing her fingerprints.  
"So, what can I do you for?"  
Amélie sits down and starts her sales pitch.  
"As you know, Overwatch is starting up their work. It's not yet a problem, but it will become one if we do not nip it in the bud."  
"Pah, a monkey, an aging old man with a rusty suit of armor and some scientists. I will not waste my time and attention."  
"They are growing and recruiting though. Recently, they got a certain swiss doctor onboard, and will continue to do so."  
Moira's eyes light up, glowing slightly red in the strange lightning from the lab.  
"Still, we do not need to spend our valuable time. They have been disgraced, and will surely be dealt with by local law enforcement." Moira does not seem entirely convinced by her own argument.  
"And the prospect of getting rid of an old rival who stole your work does not appeal to you?"  
"I am not as driven by revenge as you, Amélie. I have moved on, I have other work." She points to the lab.   
Amélie fixes her gaze.  
"You can drown yourself in work as much as you want, that does not convince me of any essential difference between us."  
"I have no need of convincing you."  
Amélie smiles. Sparring with Moira has always been fun.  
"Then don't. But good luck convincing yourself. Call me when you fail." Amélie rises from her chair and stretches her hand across the table.   
"A pleasure, Widowmaker. You are always welcome in Oasis."  
As Amélie leaves and makes her way out, she throws a quick look back towards the office. Moira does not leave her chair, or move for a long moment in time, until she starts quickly tapping around on the screen of her desk. Amélie leaves with a satisfied smile on her lips, as she makes her way to one of the better bars in town, a wine bar in one of the skyscrapers. Amélie always feels slightly more calm when she has a good view. Some habits die hard.   
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listened to while finishing this chapter;  
> Bad for you - MERLOT  
> Take Me - Boy Sim  
> MY KZ UR BF - Everything Everything
> 
> I will say nothing about schedule, that turned out to be a mistake. Also blizzard pls stop adding characters it makes the game fun yes but think of the fic writers. I will never add hammond in anything, and thats a guarantee. I will not deal with hyperintelligent space hamsters.


End file.
